


Russian Techno

by caixa



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, No Sex, Pre-NHL, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caixa/pseuds/caixa
Summary: ”Do you remember Sochi?” Sasha asks.“The Olympics? You woke me up to remind me of that?”“No,” he says, “Earlier. This music. I haven’t heard the song since that year.”





	Russian Techno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsytosherwoodforest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytosherwoodforest/gifts).

> The song is "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette (Per Gessle, 1987).
> 
> The camp in Sochi was made up by me for this story.

Nicke wakes up to Sasha’s voice, unexpectedly soft, and fingertips caressing his temple, brushing his curls back from his face.

”Do you remember Sochi?” Sasha asks.

Nicke blinks a couple of times to drag himself to reality. Sasha’s question doesn’t really bring any nice memories to his mind: he remembers the shame and shock over the test results, waiting for the pleas and negotiations, his ambiguous feelings towards the silver medal he was awarded nonetheless. Sasha’s worry over him, how it reflected in his play for team Russia.

Yeah, memories he’d rather not think of.

“The Olympics? You woke me up to remind me of that?”

Sasha’s eyes are soft and fond.

“No,” he says, “Earlier. This music. I haven’t heard the song since that year.”

Nicke sharpens his ears, there’s something familiar playing in Sasha’s hideous Russian clock radio he keeps in the bedroom for some odd nostalgic reason.

_Touch me now, I close my eyes_ _  
And dream away..._

Nicke remembers.

* * *

**2005**

“Training camp?” Alexander asked. “Are you sure?”

“And a mini tournament,” his agent confirmed on the other end of the phone, “Only two games and the insurance policy should be fine.”

Alexander scratched the back of his head.

“I’ll have to check with the trainer that it is in line with my off-season program,” he said. “Other than that, I guess that sounds fine.”

Flying for a couple of days of training and playing hockey in the sunny resort city of Sochi by the Black Sea didn’t sound bad at all. A new energy drink brand tried to make a name for themselves by arranging some kind of a training camp, complete with showcase games. The target market was Europe, especially northern and eastern countries, and they wanted to have young European players to appear under their name.

Money, sun and hockey? Why the hell not.

“Up and coming young talent, mostly from national leagues. You’ll be one of the few NHL prospects,” his agent had said and that sounded fine too. Alexander wasn’t shy with attention, that was sure.

Alexander knew he looked wolfish. It didn’t bother him, it didn’t even bother him to be called _Jaws_ at the age of nineteen. If he was seen resembling an intimidating predator, good. If there was a resemblance to an iconic Bond villain, even better.

He would give a big hit, bang a player to the boards and grin, knowing that sometimes a smile does not have to look pretty. It was a part of the package that got him forward: not only his killer shot and the hunger for goals, but all of who he was, personality and appearance included.

Alex had already got used to getting offers: it was good value for so many to be associated with his name and face it sometimes felt like he was a product, a commodity to be sold. But he’d shake the feeling off, give it a shit-eating grin and let his blades bite the ice one harder.

In Sochi the up-and-coming talent was divided into two teams sooner than Alexander expected, shortly after a welcome ceremony and lunch.

“Ovechkin!”

After his name had been called he soon noticed he was in a Russian-only team. The other team was combined with more diverse nationalities: all the Czechs, Swedes, Finns, with a few players from other countries, were called there.

"Russia versus the world?" Alex muttered to his younger namesake Alexander Radulov when they were given a tour of the sports complex they would be spending the majority of the next few days.

"More like our alphabet versus theirs," Radulov replied and pointed at the large brand banners on the opposite ends of the spacious gym. They advertised the energy drink brand in otherwise identical colors and design but on their side all the information, the brand name included, was printed in cyrillic letters where the other end used latin letters.

"Like paraller realities," Alexander said, turning his head between the banners.

"Talk rather about two markets," Radulov retorted.

Of course: the company wanted Russian faces for photos that would spread on the Russian market; the faces of the other players would later appear in their respective countries.

The division wasn’t there only for the training photo-ops and the showcase games where the two teams faced each other. As much as Alex would have wished for a chance to mix and mingle a bit more in the free time, it seemed to be to no avail.

“Here, here!” one of the marketing officials of the drink brand gestured. Alexander sighed and followed his all-Russian herd to the large conference room for a dinner with some chosen guests.

The sight he saw when he passed the other ballroom, where the players of the other team were already sitting in long dinner tables, didn’t surprise him the least. Again, the same colors in the brand banners and centerpieces as the ones in the room he was guided to, only with Latin alphabet.

He caught the eyes of one of the players through the door. The younger blond boy didn’t even nod but he seemed to acknowledge Alexander’s frustration, letting the one corner of his lips curl up in a lopsided smile. _Here we are,_ it seemed to say, _it’s not ideal but I know how you feel_.

Maybe Alexander was reading too much into it because as much as he wanted to push back the thought, the young player was the main reason he would have wished for more interaction with the international team.

Maybe it was an opposites attract -situation that had drawn Alexander’s eyes to the innocent-looking young Swede on the first day of the camp. The kid – he was a kid, one of the players coming from the junior ranks of their national leagues, under draft age to the NHL – looked like a cherub with his round cheeks and golden curls.

On the ice he was no angel, and certainly not a sacrificial lamb: he had stolen the puck from Alex with a killer’s instinct, determination in his eyes, lips pursed tight, and flown on his skates away from him.

_Backstrom_, Alexander had read on the back of the brand assigned jersey; _N-i-c-k-l-a-s_, he memorized from the team listing later in his hotel room. The names had gone by his ears so fast, a whirl of foreign sounds, a bit like his draft day.

Nicklas. _Nikolai_, he realized; his mother had taught him how nations borrowed the same names of saints and kings from one another, tweaked the pronunciation and writing to match their own language.

Nikolai, Nicklas – it was a regal name, an emperor’s name. Alexander liked it. _Prince. Swedish prince._

He kept the thought to himself.

He kept it to himself the first night, overwhelmed with the whirl of newness that hits you in new places, in a swarm of new people.

He kept it to himself the second, knocked out from sheer exhaustion of the intense physical training, followed by the first showcase game, that they had been put through that day. He had liked it, maybe partly because the Russian team had won, but physically – it was draining.

The last night fell on them like the end of a roller coaster ride, an abrupt stop that made the series of ups and downs seem ridiculously short in hindsight.

Alexander still kept the thought to himself, through the appetizers and two main courses of the smiling-politely-and-exchanging-pleasantries-with-investors –themed dinner.

Before the dessert was served they were ushered to get up from their seats to a group photo, players and guests arranged together. Alexander looked into the camera, smiled and flexed his arm; when the photographer joked to make them laugh, he laughed.

When they were released from posing, he excused himself and went to the hallway. He needed to breathe.

Was it a surprise that the young Swede was in the hallway too? Somehow, not the slightest.

Alex spotted the silhouette against a large window at the end of the corridor. Nicklas stood there hands in his pockets, looking out into the darkness dotted with yellow streetlights, the golden curls on the back of his head towards him.

Nicklas turned his head when he heard his steps.

“The last night,” Alexander said. He wanted to say something more but his English failed him. He doubted the boys’ Russian would be any better than his Swedish.

Nicklas smiled and nodded. The curls bounced against the collar of his jacket.

“How can time go so slow - umm, in there?" he said, gesturing half awkwardly towards the dining room. "It has gone so fast before.”

Alexander understood English better than he spoke it. It was easy to laugh in agreement.

“You are right,” he said, hesitated for a moment and added, “I think too fast.”

Nicklas squinted and gave him a sidelong glance over his shoulder. He swayed lightly on the soles of his shoes, from heel to toe.

“Yeah,” he replied.

Alexander felt something unsaid fluttering in the pit of his stomach. A thought formed in his mind; he patted his pocket but remembered that the he had left the little piece of paper in his room.

“Backstrom,” he said, well aware that his accent was butchering the sounds of the Swedish name.

Nicklas lifted his eyes to him. “Yes?”

“You and me,” Alexander gestured in the air between them, “Sneak out after dark. Okay?”

Nicklas glanced out of the window.

“It _is_ dark,” he pointed out.

Alexander tilted his head from side to side.

“Later,” he said. “After dinner. After bedtime.”

Nicklas squinted again but nodded, a hint of a smile rising on his lips.

“Why not. Okay,” he said.

Alexander’s reaction was a wide grin.

“Great! I’ll knock your door.”

When they were out of the hotel Alexander dug the flyer out of his back pocket. He showed it to Nicklas who was walking next to him, holding it straight with his thumb and little finger, the crumpled sheet of paper stretched over the rest of the fingers.

“Want to see a real Russian rave?” he asked. “Old school. In a warehouse.” He winked. “Illegal.”

Nicklas didn’t even flinch.

“Sure,” he said.

Alexander liked it. If a part of his brain even tried question how wise it was to get one of the youngest players on the camp involved in any illegal activity, he shrugged it off efficiently.

The only problem was the starting time: the rave wouldn’t start much before midnight.

From Alexander’s perspective it wasn’t a big problem. A bar crawl would be a perfectly fine way to kill time. It would also make the trip towards the warehouse much more fun: in the lively tourist town there’d surely be enough places on the way there. As a bonus, if they spent some hours walking from one bar to the next, they’d avoid the chance of being ripped off by local taxis.

Nicklas wasn’t averse to the suggestion but he hesitated slightly.

“Are you sure? I mean – what about my age? Will they ask for an ID?”

Alexander let out a bellowing laughter and slapped Nicklas on the shoulder.

“This is Russia. I tip, that’s ID.” He left his palm to cup the shoulder he had slapped and squeezed it. “Or you stick to soda.”

Nicklas didn’t stick to soda, and nobody asked for an ID. It was fun: the young Swede matched every shot or beer that Alex downed on the various locations they stopped in on their way towards the dark industrial district on the outskirts of the town.

By the time they reached their destination they were close to being a floundering, giggling mess, but the cold night air had a blessed sobering effect.

The place wasn’t hard to recognize. Sure, to the outside it looked just like another industrial warehouse but the bass blasting from the inside made its sheet metal walls vibrate, the low boom-boom-boom-rhythm clearly audible amidst the darkness.

Inside it was a different world: smoke, sweeping lasers and flickering strobe lights distorted the vision, and the boom of Russian techno was deafening.

They danced until exhaustion and beyond, feet stomping to the rhythm like it was their heartbeat, vibrating on the sternum, arms waving in the air.

Nicklas’ eyes twinkled in the dark when the rays of light caught them, the strobe light painted a series of still snapshots of his curls bouncing around his face, sticking to the sheen of sweat on his temples and forehead.

Alex gestured at his feet. They were killing him but he couldn’t find the English to say it.

“I –“ he started but realized he wouldn’t be heard over the music.

Nicklas pointed towards the side wall, raising his eyebrows questioningly. Alexander smiled in relief and followed Nicklas who started to slowly advance across the floor, swaying his body side to side, dancing while walking.

The wall was dusty, the floor by the wall even dustier; Alex more felt than saw it because it was in the shadow, nearly pitch black behind the sets of lights.

Nicklas drew in a deep breath and blew it out. He leaned to the dusty metal wall with his butt and bowed forward, shaking his hair down as if cooling down his sweaty neck.

Alexander watched the silhouette in the faint backlight and realized that the sight was almost unbearably adorable: the determined, fierce cherub letting loose.

Nicklas straightened his back and smiled, Alex more sensed than saw it, the corners of the lips curling up in the murky space. He extended his hand and hesitated for a moment before he touched the rounding cheek, gave it a barely-there brush with the side of his finger.

The beat dropped. Thunk –_thunk – thunk. _Thunk.

Was it his heart?

Nicklas leaned in, Alexander’s finger was still on his cheek and followed his movement until it wasn’t just the finger anymore, he cupped the cheek with his palm. A pair of lips met his, a light taste of salt and alcohol, and- 

The music stopped. The colorful darkness of the warehouse was cut abruptly by a blinding white light.

“Police!”

Shouts filled the air, footsteps to every direction adding to the chaos. Alexander grabbed Nicklas’ hand and guided him out of the nearest exit he saw, and they kept running for as long as they had breath.

“I couldn’t let you get caught there,” Alex said a few blocks later, leaning to a wire net fence, catching his breath, “I don’t want you to get in trouble.” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking English or Russian or mixing both but it didn’t seem to matter.

They strolled slowly back towards the hotel. The cracked tarmac and rattling steel fences of the half-abandoned industrial area gradually gave way to residential neighborhoods with actual working streetlights.

Alex spotted a bar in the corner of one building, a few steps below street level.

“Come,” he said to Nicklas.

The place was almost empty, one drooping client staring half-blindly at his glass in a table near the window. There was a small dance floor at the back of the shabby, alcohol-foggy space, not much larger than the size of a doormat, Russian pop pouring down from rattling speakers above it.

Alex ordered two local beers, paid and handed one to Nicklas. He leaned over the counter again to talk to the bartender.

“Do you have any Swedish music?” he asked in Russian.

The bartender shrugged but walked to a small CD collection.

The sounds of “Waterloo” by Abba attacked the cramped airspace, making the old drunk in the corner table lift his head. Alex waved his hands in the air, hollering at the bartender.

“No, no, no! Something… _romantic_. Please.”

The bartender shrugged again, turned to his box of CD’s again and swapped the disco tales of Napoleon's defeat to something else.

The song was in English and sounded vaguely familiar, echoing something from Alexander’s childhood years, and if the bartender said it was Swedish he’d take it.

“Dance with me?” he asked Nicklas.

“Why this one?” Nicklas asked him when Alex wrapped his arms coyly around his waist, joining them behind his back.

“No slow dances in raves,” he answered.

* * *

Sasha hums along the music. He's lying on his stomach now, propped up with his elbows, and curls a strand of Nicke's hair around his finger.

"Who would believe such luck? That out of all places, the one who got away walks back into your arms in the NHL draft?"

Nicke smiles back at him, chuckling softly, and catches the languidly stroking finger between his lips.

"Who would believe that the one who got away announces your name in the NHL draft?" he answers.

_It must have been love, but it’s over now. It must have been good, but I lost it somehow._

“I never realized this is such a sad song,” Sasha shakes his head.

Nicke smiles at him.

“Yeah. You made me think that you were nursing a broken heart that night,” Nicke says.

Sasha laughs softly.

“The next morning I would have. When I didn't see you in the breakfast room and they told us that the flight for Sweden had left early. But man, the song - My English was –“ he waves his hand dismissively and shrugs. “I didn’t listen to the lyrics.”

Nicke nods in understanding.

“Okay. So you have never listened to them later either? ._..but it’s over now,_” he hums.

Alexander shakes his head.

“Not really,” he says. “Over? Is anything ever really _over? _Somewhere deep down I think I always knew I’d meet you again.” He extends his hand to ruffle Nicke’s hair, sinking his fingers in the familiar golden curls. “My little cherub Nikolai from Sochi.”

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
Comments and kudos highly appreciated.  
I'm [caixxa](https://caixxa.tumblr.com) and [ badhockeymom](https://badhockeymom.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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